


in sanguinem potentia est

by slytherinsnekxvii



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Dark fic, Death Eater Severus Snape, Did I mention this was dark?, Gen, This is a dark fic, and it works, contains actual murder, it's not that bad but i feel like i should warn ppl, like actually, like the death eaters skipped politics and just went straight to murder, not a spy just a death eater, there is violence in this, very dark, which is described in detail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-20 16:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30007707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherinsnekxvii/pseuds/slytherinsnekxvii
Summary: The Dark Lord lives in the shadows and his eyes have long adjusted to the darkness, so he snuffs out the Light's pitiful little candles and relishes in having blinded his enemy. This is war, after all, and there is no honour in war.
Relationships: James Potter & Sirius Black, James Potter/Lily Evans (mentioned)
Kudos: 2





	in sanguinem potentia est

**Author's Note:**

> warning: this story was written when i was pretty upset and it reflects that. this is not a happy fic. it is dark and contains violence. it's probably not as bad as i'm making it out to be, but if this is something you're not comfortable with, please keep this warning in mind and remember that you can leave at any point.
> 
> all that aside, idk, i was thinking about severus being an actual, legitimate death eater because i genuinely believe that if that was the case voldemort would have won the war, and when i decided to write it, it got darker than i expected. i promise i'll write something lighthearted to make up for it, though.

In the end, it all comes down to blood. Blood spilled, blood drawn, blood scattered. It's amazing what one can do when they shut away their emotions, and allow themselves to be ruthless.

The Dark Lord lives in the shadows, and his eyes have long adjusted to the darkness, so he snuffs out the Light's pitiful little candles and relishes in having blinded his enemy. This is war, after all, and there is no honour in war.

It begins with James Potter. Rather, James Potter is the first to die.

It's a sordid affair. He goes out and does his job as an upstanding Auror and member of the Order of the Phoenix while his wife and their son sit at home, untouched, unaware. It's a Death Eater raid this time, but they're all just a bunch of too-posh, curse-happy ponces. It won't take long.

He arrives, bursts through the door with the rest of his colleagues, a mix of Order members and Aurors both. Boothe collapses to a flash of green light before he can think, Worth's corpse is rolling by the time he has his wand in hand. The sight of Johnson's slashed body imprints itself in his mind, and he uses the memory of it to strengthen the hatred he needs to fuel whatever curse he'll cast next.

He opens his mouth, prepares to shout as he frantically scans the room. He hasn't taken proper stock of the situation, there's more of them than expected to have to take on with just him and Padfoot at his back. He'll fight, though, he will. He raises his wand, never casts. There's pain. His vision blurs. He sees and hears nothing.

He wakes days, moments, hours later. He doesn't know. His head hurts. His stomach hurts. Where's Siri? He needs water, his throat is dry. Why is he awake? Voices. It hurts to focus, but he has to. He knows the voices. He hates those voices. Why does he hate them?

"Hullo, _cousin_ ," one of the thrice-damned voices chirps in his ear. Loudly. He can't think anymore.

He opens his eyes, and the light stings. He shuts them, sees no more than a quick glimpse of strawberry blond hair.

"Oh, don't be like that. With how close we both are to _dear, darling_ Sirius, you don't think he'd want us to get along?"

"He—" James forces out of his dry, aching throat. "He... hates you. All of—you."

"Does he?" Rosier asks, and when James opens his eyes, the look on his face is so exaggeratedly surprised that he shuts them again. "Oh, no, no, cousin, open those eyes. Don't you want to see for yourself how close Sirius and I are? I daresay he'd _die_ for me if I asked."

James's eye open of their own accord at that. The light is still painful, his vision still blurred—where are his glasses?—but he needs to look, needs to see what they're doing to his friend. He looks.

"Good boy," Rosier smirks, and rewards him by nudging his head with the toe of his boot as he walks away. James can actually see Sirius now, but something is very, very wrong. He's on the floor, sitting rather than laying, and there's nothing. No anger, no pain, not like James. He simply sits on the cold, hard ground and listens blankly to the other voice. And oh, this other voice that James hates. He hated it for seven years. He hated it when it had an accent like Lily's, despised it when it started to sound like Lucius fucking Malfoy.

He hates it now, when Padfoot turns to look at him, and snarls, scrabbling across the floor like—like—a dog, and that godforsaken voice—Snivellus's stupid _fucking_ voice—says, "Heel."

And Padfoot turns around, and goes to heel.

"Sit," he says, and Padfoot sits.

"My turn," Rosier smirks, and says, "Fetch."

He throws James' wand at him, and Sirius jumps after it. James reaches for it, curses his slowed reaction time, grabs at it again. When Sirius bites at him, it's Padfoot's teeth that sink into his hand. The feeling is hellish, canine teeth digging into the the thin flesh and bones of his hand. He jerks back reflexively, winces when the motion does nothing but tear the skin further. He lets go of the wand. Sirius snaps at it, clutches it in his teeth and walks back over to drop it at Rosier's feet.

"Good boy," he grins, and takes the wand in his left hand, patting mockingly at Sirius' head with his right. "Lovely bite marks you've left on this, really. And I do love the colour of blood... let's play again. Fetch," he says, and carefully levitates the wand over to its owner. "You can use your claws, if you like."

Sirius jumps at him again, each scrape of Padfoot's claws carving a line into James's skin. He mauls and gouges and digs wherever the wand goes, and he bites, practically rabid in his chase. At the end of it, James is bloodied and bruised, his arms, his face, his chest damaged to point where his bones are exposed to the chill of the air. Sirius growls at his and drags Padfoot's claws along his cheek. James knows nothing after that. He's gone.

When James Potter's body is delivered to Godric's Hollow, nearly beyond recognition, it is a declaration of war.

Dumbledore sends his tin soldiers marching one by one into the belly of the beast, and their blood paves the way for those who walk behind. With the slow, painful demise of the resistance, the Death Eaters earn their name.

They are vicious, cruel, cold-blooded in their mission, each with their own agenda, all ravenous in their own way, and in the end, it all comes down to blood. As it turns out, blood has much more power when it's decorating the walls.

**Author's Note:**

> cross-posted to my tumblr @slytherinsnekxvii


End file.
